


echoes

by kaleidoscope_kat



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, a mention of jeritza if you squint, also mentions of mercedes, kinda mentioned ashe somewhere in there, mentions of byleth - Freeform, no beta we die like Glenn, unreliable narrator kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26607511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidoscope_kat/pseuds/kaleidoscope_kat
Summary: a wasteland. that's what this is- that's what this shouldn't be. he picks up his sword, easily simply- wiping blood and guts and what not off with his shirt. it's gross- it's completely unhygienic and if anyone told him- even a couple years ago that this was going to happen, he would have flipped them off or ignored them. both at the end.but no because this is reality. this is fucking reality and he is living in the middle of a former non-wasteland where everything's now trashed and shit . it hasn't been long since the stupid thing happened yet it feels so long.the virus- or whatever it was. at this point, updates weren't coming soon. the whole world was covered with them- the undead, millions of lives lost all day and humans going into extinction. to think that a couple years ago in biology- the teacher talked about exponential growth and the fact that humans had not yet reached carrying capacity.---sylvix week 2020 || day one - urban fantasy au
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	echoes

**Author's Note:**

> i er--
> 
> have no clue what i'm doing really honestly it's like. a one day late update i just kinda wanted to write something
> 
> here you go i suppose? day one, sylvix week--
> 
> i've never written anything for fe3h so please bare with me i apologize if like. the character isn't spot on and please please please give me advice thank you <33

a wasteland. that's what this is- that's what this shouldn't be. he picks up his sword, easily simply- wiping blood and guts and what not off with his shirt. it's gross- it's completely unhygienic and if anyone told him- even a couple years ago that this was going to happen, he would have flipped them off or ignored them. both at the end.

but  _ no _ because this is reality. this is fucking reality and he is living in the middle of a former non-wasteland where everything's now trashed and shit . it hasn't been long since the stupid thing happened yet it feels so long.

the virus- or whatever it was. at this point, updates weren't coming soon. the whole world was covered with them- the undead, millions of lives lost all day and humans going into extinction. to think that a couple years ago in biology- the teacher talked about exponential growth and the fact that humans had not yet reached carrying capacity.

if only she could view the world now. what would she be like? worried or. impassive like she always was? he didn't care. he never really cared, it was just another class after all.

and the bothersome redhead sitting next to him- always coming to him to strike up some stupid conversation. how was he doing in such an atmosphere? he always seemed to ruin himself after all.

he closed his eyes, shaking his head- once, twice. fixing his hair. the world was crumbling at his feet and he could do nothing about it.

nor did he care.

\---

a couple of months had passed and there was still no improvement. deprovement, more like. whatever the world was. the world was covered- infested with the undead- zombies some called them.  _ zombies _ , monsters or some shit that appeared in books. that did not exist- with or without a virus. what happened to the past where viruses didn't destroy the whole universe? he didn't know. he didn't know and he didn't ever want to fucking know.

a couple of months and no human contact. there were supplies, rotting food still in certain places. he had to put effort in such though. scavenging for food.

if only the ginger could see him now in such a state. what would he think actually? was he alright even?

he snorted slightly, blowing a tuft of indigo hair out of his face, sweat already glistening on his brows. things were better now. maybe. not exactly. there were less of the undead circling around where he stayed- which really meant less trouble.

but also less fighting.

more food and supplies though, with everything running around- animals, who did not seem to know a single thing of what was happening.

he missed steak. the good well-cooked ones. the ones found at restaurant or even the ones that his- acquaintances, classmates- maybe even friends knew how to cook. he missed the cafeteria food even, the messy eating. the competitions throughout the year, seeing who could do the most stupid shit- shove the most meat or whatever down their throat in the minutes provided.

\---

a year. maybe. he had lost track a long time ago. barely anything had changed- well. perhaps a bit of improvement. he had figured out a couple of things after all, fashioning and refashioning, cleaning his clothes by the river. tricks he never thought he needed to use for hunting, as well as hiding. to hide in the shadows was the best bet after all, looking for signs- stupid signs in the forest, and perhaps even in the stars.

marking his day silently- keeping track in his mind. some occasional times when he scratched out something on the dirt, or on the mud. placing leaves and sticks in weird fashions, memorizing which path- which road to take, even if the world seemed almost surreal now.

everything was empty. near empty- street signs he could still see, he could still remember. the local fencing club, where the swords always seemed pristine. oh how he would love to get his hand one one of those sabres again- even if it were the useless ones that didn't hurt. the grip was nice after all, the accomplishments after landing a hit. even if his opponents were always easier to beat.

he missed one of them though. too much maybe. his height had always posed a challenge, the way he carried his saber. his smooth movements. as if the universe gifted him not only with charms but smoothness, in not only wooing but also moving.

not to mention he looked decent enough to be called attractive.

\---

faces fading. everything fading, piece by piece. he does not know their likes or dislikes anymore, or how their name sounded on his lips. not his name for the matter either- that was a past he had left behind. or perhaps a past the world would never let anyone return to. he does not know anyone. he barely remembers, the laughs- the cheers. he does not want to remember. it will all be too painful, when none of them survive.

he wonders, if any one is still alive. if anyone of them is still living and fighting and still. there.

he was separated after all, from all of them. he was separated from doing something stupid, by taking thousands of the undead by himself- only to remain with an injuries but with his life intact. those fencing lessons were worth it after all, an opponent- multiple opponents who were better than the sluggish hungry movements of the undead.

he misses it. fighting for his honor, not for his life. fighting for a purpose that wasn't as important as this. perhaps thousands of years ago, he would have wished for a future like this.

he doesn't anymore. he misses them. even if he does not recall what they wore. even if he didn't recall how his lips tilted, how his eyes shone when he was truly smiling genuinely.

at this point, he thinks he also misses the fake smiles. even those pathetically fake smiles of when he was trying to hold himself together.

\---

the first sign of another were footprints, and a scent too familiar yet too far away. pine, the scent of pine in an area where there was a lot of pine. yet- that pine was special, somehow. slightly, that is.

he had never missed such an aroma more.

\---

the signs are more evident now. traces. footprints- thousands of footprints but also the fact that he soon realized that some of his own things have started to go missing. the unimportant things however, things that he had an abundance of.

he found himself tugging his hair that day, a curse spilled out of his mouth. the first word he has spoke in so long- his voice scratchy and unused and unaccustomed to the sounds.

there are spices left. rare spices, spices that he hadn't seen in so long. spices that he no longer remembered the name or the taste of.

spices that he did not know still existed in the present day. well preserved, they were, as well as a trace of pine.

the redhead did often smell of pine needles after all, and the forest. somewhere unlike where he was currently residing.

\---

he wakes up. restless, shaking slightly. sounds- echoing his mind, faces starting to appear once more. nameless faces- faces that are recognizable though. a flirt.

at the end, all he can remember is a flirt. arguments perhaps-

the redhead is there, he knows. the redhead he thinks about all too often. the flirty redhead.

the redhead who often teased another who gave someone else a dagger. the redhead that he often found himself following, the redhead he couldn't find himself leaving.

at the end, he was the one who left after all. leaving the group- chasing down some of the undead. never making it back. by the time he went to the original camp, all traces were gone.

besides the smell of pine needles.

he had stayed maybe. stayed for too long. stayed for a second or perhaps days and weeks and months longer than the rest.

even the boar had left then. even the boar and the female knight.

\---

he does not know what day nor what month nor what what it is. he knows that his hair is growing long however. insufferably long. it has been growing long for a while.

he does not hesitate to use one of his hunting daggers, fashioned- crafted by himself. not necessarily the best but still useful.

he cuts a fair amount off, his hair only reaching his shoulders now.

he doesn't mind. the ghost doesn't exist after all, the redhead had probably moved on.

the redhead liked his long hair, he remembers. played with it often.

the redhead may be another figment of his imagination after all. they haunt him these days, the words- people. he sometimes sees his older brother. his older deceased brother.

they are just nightmares after all, he reminds himself once more.

\---

he found the redhead. when time was nonexistent, that was when he first saw him again. in person.

none of them dare approach the other. he still thought that perhaps its some soft of lucid dream, or something- it didn’t make sense after all

yet he didn't care. redhead was here, and maybe. maybe that's all that matters in the moment.

it was all that matters, he thought later.

it took them days maybe, before the redhead first approached him. he stiffened slightly, pulling out his dagger in a sudden movement.

it is not a sword nor a sabre, but it'll do. maybe.

he did not expect the same dagger lying on the floor moments later, the smile- that one smile smirk he missed so much. victory was rare for the other after all, and he was a shitty loser. yet despite that, the winning smile of the other made him feel as though he was winning something as well.

he cursed however, lips dry. his voice as well- the sounds and constants and vowels aren't as smooth as before, yet its the first word he's spoke in a while. he didn't care.

"long time no see, fe," the cursed nickname- his eyebrows raised. felix. that was what the others called him, a name he didn't acknowledge much.

"that's a damn understatement," felix replied. he founds himself tucking a loose piece of hair behind his ears.

sylvain. that was the name of the other. a jerk if anything, manipulator of hearts and feelings. yet deep down, despite all the lies the ginger crafted around himself, he was still the same idiot from their childhood. the same idiot who smiled with a broken arm, as if nothing could be better.

he licked his lips, shaking his head slightly as sylvain talked.

"come," he uttered, moments later. he gestures to the place he has resided in for so long, "we have a shit load to catch up on."

\---

they get used to each other soon enough. mornings were easy, waking up to the smell of cooked meat as sylvain is already tearing it apart, offering some to him. he frowned, rolling his eyes as he recalled the night when sylvain stole all the blankets and what not, leaving him to freeze in the morning. he was still frozen then, rubbing his hands together to warm them up, arms sometimes snaking around the other in the middle of sleep (definitely not intentionally), a warm body pressed against his.

the meat was less bland, flavored with spices that sylvain had somehow acquired from elsewhere. girls, felix assumed- but sylvain always shook his head slightly, a sparkle in his eye- full of secrets.

soon enough, they were together for everything, going together across the area, felix always leading the way. marks and marks dictating where they were going to go next, sometimes stopping by the river- other times visiting the past the world had left behind.

he would always hold sylvain’s hand, in the past. following him for another great adventure. this time it was sylvain who held his hand, him navigating the way across the area, although it was familiar yet unfamiliar territory for the both of them. things had changed in the last few years after all, since the apocalypse hit.

he didn’t mind, he never did mind. with all the swatting and the words saying as if he didn’t like the subtle touches. he did like them, that was the curse. the curse of whatever this was. soon enough, felix found himself blushing slightly, pink specks on his cheeks. sylvain frequently made comments of such. he was lucky, the sun being hot- blaming it on the heat.

he cursed himself every night, hair splayed across- messy as he was still awake, the other resting peacefully beside him. perhaps multiple years ago, he could have fallen asleep to the steady sound of sylvain’s snores. these days, it kept him up, mind whirling while the rest of the (alive) world was asleep.

at least they implemented the rules of taking turn to keep watch later. sylvain sleeping as felix did the opposite, finding his dagger as he kept watch, outside of the broken down building- climbing as high as he could to search for the undead. anything really, protecting. protecting the other. (it wasn’t a lie to say that he was afraid as well, of when sylvain went out in the dark hours later. what if the other didn’t survive?)

if the undead didn’t keep him up late at night, the possibilities of the other dying did.

\---

things went better. a lot better. a twist of fate had led them to this place, where felix no longer had to worry about  _ feelings _ in his mind, thoughts unraveling as he could do the most simple yet the most intimate things. hand holding soon became much more- his fingers brushing the others as a steady glow of red accented his cheeks. he didn’t mind now, if sylvain ever mentioned it.

lips sometimes touching the other, fingers playing through his hair. some sensations tickled, not that he minded. he had never made one more move, never dared to stop sylvain from doing such things.

(maybe he did, actually. maybe if days got stressful, he would have done something he would later regret. it was fine however, they both made mistakes. they both mended themselves back together. they were fine.)

\---

the first time the thoughts plagued his brain, he was still 17. younger than the other, at that. neither of them minded the company of the other though (no matter how felix tried to deny such).

another rejection, by the sight of it. the public didn’t seem to know, or ever seem to see. sylvain was more broken than he ever carried himself as after all. a doll, stitched together- yet the scars were still there, mentally- if not physically.

there were dried tears however, on his face. eyes rimmed slightly with red, the smile not as bright as it could have been. like always, felix was there, rolling his eyes- staring at sylvain with another frown on his face.

“she was bound to get tired of you eventually,” he offers, voice uncaring. a sliver of care threaded its way into them however, slightly slouching as he moved more to the left, giving sylvain room to sit.

“yeah,” a short answer. unusual, yet- simple all the same. “caught me with some other girl. it isn’t my fault really, is it? that so many people want me…”

they both knew the truth behind that. money- it was always money and power, nothing about sylvain himself. none of them could see the appeal, could see the man behind the world of smiles and pretty lies. none of the could see the person who held out a hand- a shoulder, when felix needed help in his past years. none of them saw the man who was smart, who didn’t seem to study yet concentrated hard in class- knowledge filled him after all.

details he didn’t quite need, yet he stayed there anyways. offering a shoulder to cry on, someone to complain to. offering a bit of warmth, when the rest of the world was cold.

(his stomach ached though. slightly. he couldn’t help but feel relieved each time another girl dumped the other, each time the other came back with red-rimmed eyes, a smile too dim. he hated that part of himself, who liked- who, who didn’t want his friend to be happy with.. someone else.)

that night he didn’t get any rest, mind plagued with thoughts about the other, blushing as he couldn’t even believe the thoughts that raced through.

\---

all good things come to an end. eventually. he could remember- memories from his past. glenn, glenn- his older brother. arguments that they often got into, the last argument ending with himself saying something as  _ stupid  _ and  _ untru _ as “i hate you!'. who knew that those could be his last words, last words before glenn died in a car crash, protecting someone else with his last breath.

he wishes he could have tugged on his older brother’s arm for a while longer that day, begged him not to go. begged him to stay far far away from the boar who survived and his brother that didn’t.

\---

he wakes up in cold sweat. everything is freezing- cold, despite the glare of the sun overhead. there is no one beside him, there is no one outside. he does not smell pine needles nor meat.

his hair is still long, he thinks. stupidly long.

didn’t he cut it a few days ago?

he doesn’t remember anymore.

\---

he travels frequently. these days, he travels. things are stranger now- he sometimes hears the wind, sometimes doesn’t. sometimes he feels the rustle- other times it seems all forms of touch have left him. he blames it on his mind. blames it on the disease. perhaps he has it as well.

he does not turn. as days pass, he does not turn. he feels stranger than ever , the coldness never leaving him.

\---

the people are slightly more populated now, he thinks. a sadness hangs over them though. they are unmoving- pale almost. he swore he could see a flash of red, clothes dark run through the crowd.

none of the crowd seem to notice, even as the ginger’s shoulder brushes against them. it almost seems as though the redhead is going through them.

he shakes his head that day. he is merely hallucinating, nothing else.

  
  


\---

he finds them later, although he dares not approach any of them. the whole reason he got lost for whatever reason was when…

he doesn’t remember, actually. his mind is blank, perfectly blank no matter how hard he tries to think

he doesn’t know how it has happened, really.

\---

they seem happy, without him. that’s strangely the first thing he notices. sylvain’s talking to the others, so carelessly, so freely.

he haunts there for a couple more days. none of them seem to notice his presence, not a single one at all.

not even sylvain, who always had the eyes of a hawk.

it’s strange. extremely strange he knows he has made eye contact with them a couple hundred times, yet none of them notice. not even a single sign.

\---

days later, he gives up. he stands there, simply- clanking as loud as he can, as if to attract their attention.

they all seem to look past him, not even noticing.

sylvain walks towards him. he exhales a sigh at that- relieved almost.

\---

what.

what what what?

what the fuck what the fuck what the actual fuck?

he’s not dead he can’t be. he’s not dead he’s evidently alive here and now.

what are they saying what are they saying what are they saying?

he glances at his hand. they seem paler than usual, almost transparent.

what hte fuck?

\---

sylvain walks through him.

he has to be hallucinating he has to be hallucinating.

“it must have been the wind,” sylvain says- moments later. “ghosts don’t exist after all. ashe would be terrified if they did.”

“it would be nice if they did,” a soft voice. the healer- mercedes, “i wonder if he would find me if he was one.”

he now wonders what he has missed. and he wonders who that he is.

\---

the undead. he now remembers, slightly.

wiping the blood and the guts and what not off the hem of his t-shirt, his hair longer than it should be. one blind movement, he does not see. he barely sees until it happens- a faraway cry of his name, as he is drowning drowning and drowning.

he feels the claws on him- an inhumane sound. he feels himself- limbs tearing- indescribable pain.

_ please, let me go _ he remembers thinking. begging.

they do. they let him go, let him go to the world above.

**Author's Note:**

> oh gosh thank you so much for reading honestly ahpsoifhtih hope you enjoyed  
> once again please please please do give me advice or criticism even for character and what not because gosh i feel as though i really do need such
> 
> (and drop a kudos or a bookmark maybe? ahpeiosdxhiteh idk)


End file.
